By Ben Morris

The harsh breeze pushed against me as I tried desperately to breathe, choking on the air that threw me back across the deck whenever I tried to move forwards. Alas, I was not in an upcoming James Bond film, but rather, freezing on the top deck of a Red Funnel ferry heading from Southampton to East Cowes on The Isle of Wight to meet up with friends I know from all over the country for what is to be known as Project Winton. Why? Because Dale Winton is incredibly camp, and this was to be one hell of a camping holiday.

Upon arrival, me and my two fellow Birmingham travellers were greeted by the rest of the gang who had decided that they’d go ahead and eat without us – that said, when we finally did eat, it was some of the nicest fish and chips we’d ever eaten. But don’t get me wrong, during our stay we didn’t just live on fast food outlets. Shopping at the only supermarket there seemed to be on the island, we gathered food from the Co-operative, (Cowes branch) and cooked it over a roaring camp-fire. Despite the baked potato I managed to drop on the floor, it was all very tasty as well.

Being on the Isle of Wight, we regularly found ourselves in the water or on beaches. And what holiday isn’t made with a giant rubber dingy? Even if at one point I did quite literally end up a creek without a paddle, you can see quite clearly that we had a good time – especially with the oar-ful jokes that ensued. Heh. No? Ah. Come on. You’re a tough crowd. I rightfully buried Ed’s shirt in the sand for revenge of stranding me in that dingy though, so justice was done.

Of course, each evening we would retreat to our base at a Scout Camp in Corf and enjoy watching each other get drunk – and attempt to burn £185… and a phone. Or… maybe that was just me. It was a wonder we managed to get back to our tents without tearing down each and every other one on the way back, especially with the guy-ropes stretching around making the path back like a small maze. Mind you, it was just as hard to find the toilets in an inebriated state.

The best part of the camp-site for me had to be the amount of musical influence around. Armed with many a ukulele, and a single guitar, we played and sang until the hours of the early morning glared down upon us, seemingly ordering us to go to bed.

We were clearly doing something right though, because word on the street – and by this we mean the pub we stumbled upon when getting off the bus a stop early – us “polite teenagers” were the talk of the village. So, standing proudly, we enjoyed the remainder of our week under the knowledge that we were being appreciated for not being rowdy.

Overall, add together a group of friends, camping and an island and you’re on to a winner. And no room on the hourly buses for the people that actually live there.